


In the Event of Mucus

by EnglishLanguage



Category: Tron (Movies), Tron - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Messing with a program's code is a rape parallel, Queerplatonic Relationships, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sickfic, Tron is kinda angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 08:06:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18149285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnglishLanguage/pseuds/EnglishLanguage
Summary: Sam is sick. Tron is protective.





	In the Event of Mucus

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies in advance for Sam's way of speaking. In his defense, he's got a stuffy nose.

There is a slight dissymmetry in his minute mobile functions.

The disparity in question is a fluctuation- a faltering- in his digital motions; upon analysis, it’s entirely within acceptable parameters. Tron judges it a natural extension of the modus of his movements: His fingers drift with a deliberate slowness and delicacy, a _hesitance_ that causes his hand to tremble faintly and his touch to stutter with the effort of maintaining the precision of his caresses. Sometimes, he entirely fails to make contact with the skin beneath his hand, instead brushing over a thin margin of air between his fingertips and Sam’s face. On the Grid, this sort of error would never have occurred. In the world of the users, however, there exists no framework of energy to connect to; to monitor.

In the world of the users, too many of his sensors are blinded, and he lacks a minute, _crucial_ edge to his physical coordination.

An alternative method to compensating for the shaky imprecision in his hands would be to merely move more quickly and with more certainty- but, for all its disadvantages, the caution is necessary. He aches to feel the presence of his user, but Tron cannot risk awakening him.

Sam is sick, infected by some form of a malignant virus.

(He has to remind himself that a user virus differs in many ways from a program virus, and that a user virus is both controllable and non-invasive. A user virus does not force its way into frangible code, tearing apart identity and autonomy, thoroughly _violating_ everything…)

According to Alan_One, a user virus can be terminated and purged without lasting damage, but recharge is essential to a successful recovery.

By Tron’s assessment, hydration is the secondary concern after sleep, if only because Sam willingly drinks water when he remembers his need for it, but resolutely _refuses_ to rest. It took a great deal of persuasion for Alan_One to coax Sam onto the couch in the first place. No amount of Alan_One’s commandment could convince Sam to lay still, though. Tron, to the displeasure of both users, had finally invaded the quarantine of the living room, ordered Sam to close his eyes, and draped himself over the user’s torso like deadweight, heavy enough that Sam wouldn’t be able to continue the pointless squirming that was elevating his heart rate. He’s maneuvered himself off of Sam since Sam slipped into recharge. In the case of a threat, he has to be ready to protect Sam without wasting precious time untangling himself from the user’s embrace.

Tron sweeps his thumb over one corner of Sam’s mouth. Predictably, the skin there is flaky, and coated at the corners with traces of viscid, drying saliva. (He logs a note to increase Sam’s water intake.) Fingertips outline the shape of Sam’s mouth, turning over to draw knuckles across the curve of the user’s lower lip and then the paramedian bow of Sam’s upper lip. From a purely visual and tactual standpoint, Tron detects no change from his last series of investigations, concluded only 11.943 user-minutes ago. In the Grid, he would be able to calculate the exact severity of Sam’s dehydrative state with a brush of the circuits on his hands. Right now, that is another ability he lacks, and his incapability vexes him. It prevents him from fulfilling his most important directive of fighting for and protecting the users.

So he focuses on what he _can_ detect: Sam’s increasing temperature, discernible in the heat of flushed cheekbones, the gumminess of liquid warmth (Sam calls it ‘sweat’) clinging to the underside of Sam’s jaw, and the pliant texture of lips, lax and minimally parted in sleep, under the pad of his thumb. In high priority, he rechecks the rhythm of Sam’s breathing. Inhalations are sufficient, if shallow through the mouth; exhalations fit all criteria for adequate health…

Air skates back and forth, in and out, over the back of Tron’s hand with reassuring constancy, and gathers on his skin in patches of hot condensation.

The structure of Sam’s mouth in sleep is… unique. Soft and yielding under his touch, it’s free of the contrived and brittle smiles and grimaces beneath which Sam often hides. He is vulnerable.

 _Vulnerable_ … It’s a word charged with far too much significance, both positive and negative. ‘Vulnerable’ is the softness of Sam’s body beneath Tron’s, peacefully still with sleep. He's wrapped in a knot of blankets and loose clothing that would provide no protection against an assailant, but Sam's current state also signifies safety, and that there is no need to fear an assailant in the first place. ‘Vulnerable,’ conversely, was once the stiffness of Sam’s body beneath Tron’s, heaving with panic, protected only by insufficient armor and a coat of blood gushing from one shoulder. In the end, the armor would have done nothing to save Sam from the blazing edge of two red discs, but his pain- his _blood-_ would do everything.

Sam only lives to be vulnerable today because Rinzler shattered him, rendered him vulnerable in Clu's Arena many cycles ago.

The alternative ending to that event doesn’t bear thinking about.

Tron ducks his head into the familiar refuge of Sam’s neck, the languid heat of his user’s throat clammy against his forehead. In this new position, his visual input is obstructed, so he compensates by increasing contact with Sam’s mouth, scanning for continued breath and life without use of his eyes. He readjusts the span of his fingers over Sam’s mouth, measuring the slight variations in the depth and frequency of repetitive inhales, exhales… inhales…

He jerks back- overcompensates for balance- and yelps. Or rather, attempts to.

The clarity of the sound is lost at the bottom of his throat and converted into a spasm of ragged turbulence as if his voice were reduced to disjointed voxels. Voxels- on the subject of them, he perceives no damage done to his fingers; no dislocated or fractured particles.

 _Stop. Reassess._ He detects neither pain nor threat; remembers more of a nip than a bite, if anything.

“S-sc-c-cr-rRr…”

“Hn. Take y’r time, buddy.”

“Sc-cCr-rew you.”

Sam’s respondent laughter is nearly as rugged as the glitch in Tron’s own voice, and the sound of his amusement scrapes brutally through the inflammation in his throat.

“You bit me.”

“Couldn’ r’sist it.”

“You _little_ gr-r-ridbug…”

Sam’s eyes flicker open for an attocycle, the exhausted blue of his irises lurid in contrast to the patches of dull scarlet and sickly, pale skin that range across the breadth of his face. An attocycle, however, is enough time for Tron to notice Sam’s eyelids are now lined with crimson irritation, and vaguely crusted over by some variety of secretion. The substance has a distinctly diseased color, and Tron can’t remember if Alan_One mentioned anything about how to react in the event of mucus...

Suppressing the alarm that erupts, jagged, in his chest, he seizes a ‘Kleenex’ from the small, yellow cube at his knees. The fabric of this Kleenex is illogically frail and diaphanous, and he wastes precious time covering his fingers with a suitable thickness of the material before dabbing at the unidentified secretion, trying to preserve a sample for Alan_One to examine when he returns. It is _imperative_ to succeed in this; any unexpected variation in Sam’s virus could lead to the user’s destruction.

“Tron. _Nnn._..” Sam’s flailing is disturbingly weak and easy to subdue. “‘S _fine,_ man.”

“You’r-re leaking. It is not _fine_!”

Sam snorts, the thick quality of the sound indicating ‘congestion,’ and suddenly there is a new spillage to repair-

“Aw, gross. S’rry.”

“Sam, you’re showing symptoms of minor deresolution.”

“Users can’t derez. Gimme.” Sam snatches the Kleenex and crunches it against his nose with no regard for optimal usage of surface area. “You shouldn’ be so close t’ my face. You prob’ly shouldn’ ev’n be in th’ same room ‘s me.”

“I won’t contract your virus.” He forcibly extracts the Kleenex from Sam’s grip- it’s easy: the user’s palms are slick with perspiration, likely generated from Sam’s violent shivering. The cube tumbles when he tries to grab it, incorrectly calculating its weight, and this would not be an issue if his  _glitched circuits were fully operational..._ He replaces the kleenex with another of the ineffectual squares, barely in time to help Sam muffle a sneeze.

Sneezing is yet another user phenomenon, and Tron surmises he should be more intrigued by the bizarre function of expelling air and irritants from one’s throat with impressive velocity. In fact, he would undeniably be more intrigued if he weren’t so wary of the action. In his compromised state, Sam appears susceptible to total disintegration under the force of his sneezes, and no attempt of Tron’s to obstruct Sam’s nose and mouth has successfully prevented a sneeze from escaping. Yet.

He mops at the trickling fluid that clings under Sam’s nose. “You know, it’s likely that user infections don’t affect programs.”

“We don’ know that.” Lethargic, Sam’s eyes slide open again; Tron smooths them closed with a hand. “Tron. We ‘ave t’ keep you ‘n Q’rra safe. Unknown phys…" The word is cut short by a yawn, which Sam buries in the couch cushion. "Physiology ‘n stuff.”

“Invalid.” It’s a self-determined aspect of his directive, but no less crucial for that it wasn’t given to him by his user: Tron is required to oppose any and all selflessly sacrificial tendencies exhibited by Sam Flynn. “You need someone to take care of you.” Again, he falls forward into the hollow of Sam’s throat, muting the sharp whine of concern that adulterates his voice. “I don’t _care_ if I contract your virus.”

Sam pulls away, propping himself up on an elbow, and Tron is suddenly bereft of the comfort of Sam’s warmth and the distant reverberation of his pulse- his chest rumbles with a low moan undetectable at normal ranges of user hearing.

But Sam notices and makes a soft noise of sympathy, reminding Tron that he has to re-evaluate his estimations of user abilities to be representative of _all_ users, and not only Kevin Flynn. Who was apparently handicapped in some auditory regard...

“Sh-shh… ‘m righ’ here, Tron.” Sam’s broad hands slide around the sides of his head and curl fervently into his hair. Tron turns his face into the palm that cradles his right cheek, shifting further into Sam’s touch until he’s pressed the entirety of his mouth and nose into damp skin. He wonders if Sam analyzes his insignificant mannerisms as he does Sam’s; if Sam notices the incorporeal unsteadiness in Tron’s emotions that has stilted his regular ventilation into an undulating likeness of a user’s breathing. He wonders if Sam notices the uneven puffs of air that escape him, gathering in the cavern formed across Tron’s mouth by the user’s cupped palm.

He is pulled forward, obligingly reclining across the edge of the coach where Sam rests, and detects a tired whisper of a sigh against his hairline as his user leans over him. Sam drops a sidelong kiss onto his forehead and holds him still; holds them both still. Tron is _bowed_ before a user…

(The last time he was bowed before anyone, it was because he had been broken and ruined and twisted into a thing that was Tron-but-not-Tron. _Rinzler._ And the creation of Rinzler was precipitated by an entirely different, infinitely more _devastating_ type of virus.)

His- _Rinzler's_ - growl clicks its way into existence again, rattling corrupt and violent and hoarse in his chest. “ _Tron._ ” His name is Tron… “Easy, Tron, you’re safe here.”

He is bowed before a user, but he is not afraid. He is settled on his knees in utter consent and comfort. Consecrated?

This is his directive, his purpose- offered to Sam and returned again with the purest devotion. He succumbs to something more intimate than relief and more profound than gratification, an emotion in such intensity that he cannot accurately classify it.

“This ‘s okay,” Sam mumbles, and his thumbs alternate in sketching circles and diagonals behind Tron’s ears. He feels the shape of Sam’s mouth metamorphose into a grin against his forehead. “You're okay; I’ll _be_ okay…  N’ we’ll ‘ave all the time ‘n the world t’ enjoy it.”


End file.
